A Universe Condensed
by QuitSextingMyUnicorn
Summary: Bits and pieces that the BBC skipped over.
1. Exhaustion

**So yeah, not sure where this came from. Enjoy!**

Sherlock was tired.

Not just slightly drowsy, either. Sherlock was sway-on-your-feet, fall-asleep-in-the-middle-of-a-sentence exhausted. John could see it, Lestrade could see it, hell, even Anderson could see it. Sherlock, of course, was pretending absolutely nothing was the matter.  
>They'd been on the same case for 4 days, attempting to track down a Russian jewel thief who'd stolen a priceless hair clip from the museum, an incident John was calling "The Babushka and the Barrette". Sherlock had been awake the entire time and was becoming incoherent. Even though the woman had been caught and was currently being interrogated, Sherlock was refusing to leave Scotland Yard, despite John's best efforts.<p>

"John, while your concern is touching, I suggest you take your maternal instincts elsewhere. I'm not leaving until I'm absolutely sure these idiots aren't going to muck up all my hard work."

Lestrade approached them, noticing John's sigh.

"Sherlock, I promise you, we'll take care of it. I'll text you if we have questions. Go home and get some sleep, or you're no help to us at all."  
>"Thank you, <em>father, <em>but I assure you, I'm perfectly alr-." Sherlock's snark was cut off due to the fact that he suddenly swayed and pitched forward. John caught him quickly around the waist before he could hit the pavement.  
>"Hey, whoa! Careful, mate."<br>Sherlock, who had given up on trying to appear alert, and was now just trying to keep from collapsing, stared blankly ahead.

"John, why don't you take him home before he hurts himself? I'll text if we need him." Lestrade was talking quietly, but Sherlock wasn't listening anyway.  
>"Yeah, ta." John started leading Sherlock over to a waiting cabbie. He kept his arm firmly around his waist, because Sherlock was still a bit wobbly.<p>

As he strapped his friend into the cheap vinyl seat, he felt vaguely like a parent. He walked around to his side of the taxi, ignoring the looks the cabbie was giving him.  
>"221B Baker Street, thanks." They pulled away from the curb and John looked at Sherlock. He was mumbling softly to himself about "unnecessary" and "perfectly okay", but for the moment, he didn't look like he was going to hurt himself. John turned and watched the city roll past outside his window. All of a sudden, there was a heavy weight on his thighs. He looked down and noted with surprise that he now had a crotch full of consulting detective. Sherlock was face down in his lap, fast asleep, his mouth open in a very undignified way. John was at a loss for words. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. The bearded cabbie was now giving them more strange looks.<p>

John's hands hovered for a moment, unsure of where to sit now that his lap was no longer free. He settled for setting one on the window ledge, and the other gently on the dark hair pressed against him. At the touch, Sherlock stirred slightly and burrowed his face further into John's jeans, who stiffened and turned bright red, avoiding the eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror.

He watched as Sherlock's breathing slowed again, seeing the rise and fall of his chest against the side of John's leg. He felt a warmth in his chest and smiled slightly down at his friend. He was too busy watching Sherlock sleep to notice that they'd pulled up to the flat, until the cabbie cleared his throat. John looked up, embarrassed.

"Uh, could you maybe just go around the block another time? I'll pay it, it's just, er.."

He gestured at the sleeping black lump. The cabbie grinned and pulled away from the curb again.

**Guys, I'll admit, I giggled to myself a little bit when writing the line "a crotch full of consulting detective". Well, I say "a little bit".**


	2. New Year's

**So there's a naughty word in this one, the 'f' word, to be exact, because sad, self-pitying John has a bit of a temper. I do apologize.**

"10!"

"9!"

John looked around and grinned at all of his friends, the room buzzing with alcohol and the noise from the television they were all crowded around to watch the ball drop.

"8!"

"7!"

"6!"

Mycroft and Lestrade were curled up on one corner of the couch, having recently gone public about their relationship, (Sherlock had already deduced it and told John a month ago). They both were well into their 4th glasses of wine, and Mycroft was wearing a very un-Mycroft conical cardboard party hat.

"5!"

Molly was talking animatedly to her new boyfriend, who she had already excitedly shown off to John and Mrs. Hudson.

"4!"

Sherlock was sulking opposite John in his armchair. He didn't like parties.

"3!"  
>"2!"<br>John was also sulking, although he was better at hiding it. His latest girlfriend had dumped him a week earlier, and he was having trouble standing all the canoodling his friends were doing. It wasn't even that he missed HER that much, she hadn't been all that great, and she had a horrific laugh. He knew it was silly, but he just wanted someone warm to hug and love, especially on New Year's. This was ridiculous. He was a soldier, for Christ's sake.

"1!"

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Lestrade pulled Mycroft in by his party hat, kissing him sloppily. Molly, still giggling, was embraced by her boyfriend, Jeff, no, Jack. Whatever, at least he wasn't a psychopath murderer this time.  
>"Happy fucking New Year." John was feeling very sorry for himself indeed.<br>"Oh for god's sake, John." Sherlock was suddenly right on his left side.  
>"Sherlock, what are you-" John was cut off by a pair of elegant cupid's-bow lips being smushed up against his own. All thoughts of protest flew out his ears as a thin hand tangled in the short hairs on the back of his neck. Entirely too early, Sherlock pulled back.<br>"Well, that was interesting." John touched his lips. "And…wet."

Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. He looked unsure, which was not something Sherlock usually was.  
>"I'm sorry…it didn't mean anything, John." Sherlock looked afraid, which was also not something he usually was. He was staring at his shoes, which John was sure had cost more than all of his own clothes combined.<br>"Oh, shut up." It was all John had to say. It was not the time for talking. He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Sherlock's. They continued snogging, not noticing that the whole room had gone silent.


	3. Masquerade

**AN: Schmank you to everyone who favorited and added it to their story alerts, I'd like to repay you with sexual favours, except the police told me I can't do that anymore. **  
><strong>This one's a bit shorter, but I'll have another one up later tomorrow.<strong>

John looked in the mirror. Yes, this would do nicely. He straightened his torn trousers, adjusting them so the jagged edges hit just below his knees. He buttoned the last buttons on his shirt, before tugging on the puff sleeves so they tented in just the right way. Pulling his vest over his shoulders, he tied the leather straps tightly across his chest. He grinned at his reflection. It was a welcome change from his usual jumper. He snapped on his vinyl eye patch and tied his red bandana over his fuzzy blond hair, striking a pose. "Cuddly my arse", he thought to himself.

He trotted down the stairs and into the living room to grab his coat and mobile. Sherlock was lying across the armchair, his impossibly long legs sprawled out in a way that should be illegal. Just as John was about to step out the front door, he hears Sherlock's low drawl.

"Where are you going, John?" John sighed and stepped back inside.

"I've told you already, Sherlock. I've got a costume party with some of my mates from the pub. I invited Greg, he's coming as well."  
>"I'm going to assume a 'costume party' is exactly what it sounds like. How extraordinarily dull, even for you." John grinned at his insufferable flat mate, shaking his head.<br>"I love costume parties, I have ever since I was a boy. They're a right laugh." He turned to leave again.  
>"John."<p>

John stopped, his hand hovering above the door handle. He sighed. He seemed to be doing an awful lot of that lately.  
>"Yes, Sherlock?"<p>

"Why did you invite Lestrade? You don't particularly enjoy his company, I can tell." John stepped back into the living room.  
>"Because, Sherlock, I wasn't going to go alone. And I like him just fine."<br>"You could have invited me."  
>John's brow furrowed, confused.<br>"I didn't really think this was your type of event. Would you like to come?"

"No."  
>"Well, okay then, see? I'll be home in a few hours. Don't set anything on fire."<br>Sherlock made a non-committal noise in response, and John made to leave again.  
>"John."<br>John gritted his teeth and stomped once more into the next room.

"What in God's name is it, Sherlock?"

"Your costume. It's hardly accurate. A real pirate would never wear a red bandana. It'd be far too easy to spot, making sneaking aboard other ships a nightmare."  
>John grinned and stepped outside.<br>That man.


	4. Healing

**I'm super sorry this one's late, but it's longer, so there's that! Also, this was beta-ed by my sexy lover Nicola, or ifearnofish.  
><strong>

Books were strewn about the room as if a mad ape with something against literature had torn through the room, with ripped pages littering the floors and shelves. What was left of a newspaper lay in pieces in the doorway. Sherlock's phone, having apparently been thrown against the wall it sat next to, was now a pile of splintered plastic and rubber. Worse still, his violin lay shattered on the hardwood floor. John cringed slightly. He'd grown begrudgingly fond of it, and seeing it this way was akin to hearing that his favourite author had died. To say he was confused would be an understatement. Being in the army had not prepared him for being woken at a god-forsaken hour by the sound of a string instrument being bashed against something unforgiving repeatedly. His eyes searched the room for what he knew to be the source of the noise, and sure enough, Sherlock lay on the sofa, his head pressed tightly into the space between the cushions and the backboard. The position seemed familiar, and John remembered performing a similar act when he'd been in grade school and Harry or his Mum had yelled at him for something or other. He didn't move at first, afraid that if he stepped on one of the papers carpeting the floor, he'd alert his friend to his presence.

"John, I know you're there." Sherlock's tone was low and dark, although it lacked some of his usual bite. John cleared his throat.  
>"Did it-uh-did it call you wrong?" He tried to keep his tone light. He wasn't sure why he was nervous. "Your violin, I mean." Sherlock gave him no response. "Sherlock?" John sighed, and sat down next to his friend's feet on the sofa. "Are you alright?" A noncommittal grunt that rose from the cushions was the only response he got. John leaned into the cushions to wait. Sometimes, with Sherlock, silence was the best way to deal with his tantrums. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he pulled his curls from the cushions and sat up.<br>"It didn't work."  
>John looked up from his phone. He'd been responding to an email from Mary, his latest girl de jour.<br>"Hm?"  
>Sherlock turned to face him. His eyes were bloodshot and red, and his usually immaculate silk shirt rumpled.<br>"The violin. You asked about its' current condition."  
>"It didn't work?"<br>Sherlock sighed.  
>"I play the violin when I need to think. It didn't work this time." John looked at his friend, worried. He'd never seen him so not-Sherlock. His doctor instincts were itching at the back of his mind.<br>"It's not drugs." Sherlock's tone had turned cold, and he wasn't looking at John.  
>"I wasn't-I didn't think it was, Sherlock. I'm just…worried. Are you alright?"<p>

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Nothing is as it should be. This isn't how I'm supposed to be-" Sherlock's voice broke slightly and uncharacteristically. "I can't make sense of my thoughts. It's all-it's all so _loud. _I can't turn it off. My mind is shouting at me in a thousand voices, and I can't do a thing." His eyes glazed over slightly, and he continued avoiding John's gaze.

John was dumbstruck. He stared at his hands, at the tiny scars, separating the rugby ones from the shrapnel ones. He had no idea what to do. This man, this fantastically brilliant, cold, unbreakable prat of a man, had fallen apart in front of him, and he didn't know what to do. It was 3 am. He could pat Sherlock on the back, go upstairs and fall asleep again. In the morning, he'd be back to his calculating, cold self, and they'd both pretend nothing had happened. That's what ordinary flatmates would do. One sideways glance at Sherlock's shaking hands and John knew he'd never be able to do that. They'd crossed the 'ordinary flatmate' boundary a long time ago, and he could never leave him like this. Sherlock heaved a shuddering breath next to him, and John decided.

He closed the distance between the two of them, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders and the other around his shaking front. It was the strangest sort of hug John had ever given, but then again, he supposed, any sort of hug would seem strange to Sherlock. At first he tensed, and John thought he'd messed up, but then his trembling subsided and he relaxed into the good doctor's arms.

John pulled them both back against the couch cushions. At the change, Sherlock seemed to crumple even more into his arms, burying his face in John's t-shirt. John felt his hot breath slow, and he watched Sherlock's back rise and fall. He pulled him tighter when he started up shaking again, until eventually his breathing slowed  
>He wasn't sure how long he laid there watching Sherlock sleep, but the combination of a warm body pressed to his and it being three in the morning meant John slowly drifted off to sleep as well.<br>John woke the next morning, or, as he checked his watch, afternoon. For a moment he didn't know where he was or why his back was aching, but then black curls brushed his chin and he remembered. Before he had the chance to do anything, Sherlock woke up, and, seeing his position, promptly turned bright red.  
>"Tea, Sherlock?"<br>"That would be marvellous."

**Well, that's that!  
><strong>**Alsoooooo it's my birthday on Tuesday and so, as a birthday present, you guys should definitely leave me some reviews. *shamelessly begs for feedback* **


	5. Terms Of Endearment, How Distasteful

**a/n: I just want to say thank you for all your reviews and story alerts, you people are all so lovely to me. **

**notes for this chapter: established johnlock, pure, unadulterated fluff **

* * *

><p>"Darling, could you pass me the kettle?"<br>Sherlock froze at John's words, his hand hovering unmoving over a vat of hydrochloric acid. His brain reeled. Had he really just heard that? He brushed that thought away; the very notion of his mind mistaking something was laughable. He got that normal people in relationships used terms of endearment sometimes, but they were hardly normal, and besides, _John was a soldier._ In his own words, "I killed people!" Even if by some brief lapse in judgment and testosterone, John had decided using the word 'darling' in lieu of his name wasn't at all emasculating, he knew Sherlock. Sherlock, who kept sliced human hearts in the icebox, who was excited by the prospect of a triple homicide. Was John really dim enough to think that he-

"Sherlock? The kettle?

Sherlock snapped out of his rampage, looking at John, surprised.

"You know what, I'll just get it myself." John leaned in front of Sherlock and grabbed the kettle, sighing as he did so.

* * *

><p>The next time it happened was after they'd finished a particularly exciting case that had concluded with a mad dash through alleys and parks. The pair stood in the hallway of 221B, giggling like a bunch of loons. Sherlock was reminded of a time they'd been in this same position on the night they met, nearly a year before. Thinking of how much darker everything had seemed back then, how big and terrifying the world had been without his Doctor, he couldn't help but lean forward and plant a kiss on the shorter man's nose.<p>

For a moment John looked dumbfounded. Displays of affection from Sherlock were few and far between.

"What was that for?" John looked at Sherlock, who was still catching his breath.

"Because I'm permitted now."  
>John whirled. It was such a Sherlock-y answer he couldn't help but smile.<p>

"I love you, Sherlock."

"And I you, Dr. Watson." Sherlock grinned mischievously back at him, before they both turned and walked into the living room.

"Shall I call for Chinese, pet?"

Sherlock stopped immediately. This was worse than the last time. 'Darling' he could at least somewhat understand, but 'pet'? It was horrifying and extremely undignified (for both of them!).

He opened his mouth to tell him this, but John was already on the phone with the restaurant. Sherlock sighed, and sank into his chair.

* * *

><p>A few months later, after Sherlock had <em>almost <em>forgotten about the entire distasteful idea, it happened again.

They had been lying on the couch, watching some terrible singing competition that John seemed to enjoy. After about a half hour, Sherlock grew bored and scooted down the sofa to lay his head on John's chest. John wrapped his arm around his shoulders, and Sherlock pushed his head into the knitted-wool clad man's neck.

John had turned the TV down and was running his fingers through the detective's dark curls, and it was all making for a very tired Sherlock. Just before he drifted off, he felt John lean forward and press a kiss to his temple.

"Goodnight, love."

Sherlock decided he didn't mind pet names that much after all.


End file.
